


The Painting

by multifandomstylinson (ViolaWay)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:02:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ViolaWay/pseuds/multifandomstylinson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John buys a painting and Sherlock hates art.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Painting

John was on his third cup of tea by the time Sherlock got home.  He’d had a long day at the clinic, what with Sarah not talking to him and having a spotty teenage boy puke all over his shoes and not enough sleep last night because of the mysterious case of the missing diamond necklace. (Spoiler: the lovely Miss Stephanie was hiding it so that she could claim compensation. Not exactly their most challenging case.)

“Where were you?” he asked Sherlock. Sherlock didn’t reply, which was just typical, really. John took a sip of his tea and resigned himself to the fact that Sherlock was in one of his frequent ‘moods’, and that John was going to have a lonely evening watching Doctor Who and texting Lestrade. 

“What’s that?”

John jumped; he’d not been expecting Sherlock to speak for the entire evening. It had been two minutes. This was a first.

“What’s what?” he asked wearily. If Sherlock was going to be cryptic…

“ _That!_ ” Sherlock responded, pointing at the wall behind John.

“Oh…Harry sent it to me this morning. It’s just a little painting I used to have in my room as a kid. My parents are moving house and she’s been helping them clear out, as she’s been living with them for the past few weeks. Getting sober…”

“Get rid of it,” snapped Sherlock.

There went his nice evening.

“Sherlock,” he started calmly, “this is my house, too. I happen to really like this painting, and I plan on keeping it here.”

“I hate it,” Sherlock announced.

John looked at it for a minute. It was a picture of a rabbit.

“What is it about it that offends you?” he asked slowly. “Do you prefer albino rabbits? Can you not deduce anything about this particular rabbit by the shading of its fur?”

“I don’t like art.”

“How can you not like  _art,_ Sherlock? That’s absurd. You don’t even have to look at it…”

“It distracts me,” Sherlock said. “When I’m working on a case, looking at it will distract me.”

“And the yellow smiley face, the two billion experiments, the books and the papers that you leave  _everywhere_ _don’t_ distract you?” John demanded.

“No.”

“Oh, my God. Sherlock, I’m putting the painting up on that wall, and so help me if you move it one inch or shoot it for fun or…something. Just leave it be.”

Sherlock glared at him for precisely forty-two seconds before flopping down onto his sofa and turning his back to John.

“Oh, come  _on_ ,” John grumbled, before reaching for his Doctor Who box set. The teenage girl he happened to live with was not going to ruin his night by throwing a temper tantrum.

***

Sherlock’s silence lasted for three whole days. John refused to apologize, and he refused to take the bloody painting down.

In the end, he called Mycroft. He wasn’t proud of it. But Sherlock normally got pissed over more normal things, like John throwing out his experiments or hiding his cigarettes. (Oh, God. When did these things become “normal”?) Not over a painting.

“It’s a rabbit, Mycroft. And he hasn’t spoken to me for three days because it’s in our living room. What do you think would happen if I bought an actual rabbit, out of curiosity?”

_“While I’m flattered that you have come to me in order to solve your lover’s tiff…”_

“We’re not—!”

_“However, a successful partnership relies on…”_

“We’re  _not—!”_

***

“Sherlock.” No answer. “Sherlock! Oh, for—Sherlock, we need to talk about this. If you had a good reason for wanting me to take it down, I would be more than happy to negotiate a compromise.”

“I don’t like it. That’s all.”

“Did your pet rabbit die when you were little? Did your dad destroy your favourite painting? Just… _explain_ , Sherlock. Please.”

“No.”

“Okay. Then…deduce something from the painting. Like…who painted it, some interesting fact about them? That could be fun, yeah?” John suggested wearily.

“The painter was a raging alcoholic who lived in the countryside alone, presumably with an unfortunate rabbit who was forced to stay still for an extended period of time in order to pose for this ridiculous piece of artwork. The room they painted this in was painted pink. So they were a woman, I’m guessing.”

“You don’t guess,” John stated.

“Okay, I know.”

“Correct. The artist is a woman named Anneli Kuukka,” John nodded.

“I don’t like art,” Sherlock repeated sourly.

“You’ve said. But you won’t explain why.”

“It’s unnecessary.”

“It brings more beauty into the world,” John countered.

“If I wanted to look at beauty all day I could just stare at you. This is a rabbit,” Sherlock replied, as if it were the most normal thing in the world to say. John choked on air.

“Sherlock…”

“Oh, shut up, John. And get rid of the painting. Please.”

John got rid of the painting. Well, he put it up in his room. But he never let Sherlock see it again.


End file.
